My on-boarding meeting with her tomorrow. I may pin an ice pack into my bra.

Seriously. Change. Bad.

Writing Exercise:

Everything should stay that same. Always. Sure life would be boring, but then I’d never have to prove myself to a new boss or find a new nail polish colour after OPI discontinues SplitPersonality. Seriously OPI? Seriously?

Imagine a character who has a few issues with change. Strike that, someone who is practically allergic to change. The type of person who would rather stay in a job they hate than risk the unknown. The type of person who bulk buys eleven bottles of nail polish when their colour gets discontinued. (Don’t judge. Ok, judge a little or it wouldn’t be an interesting story.)

Why are they like that? Did they have an uncertain childhood? Are they superstitious? Tell us the story of how they developed their quirks. (You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.)

Happy Writing.

NB. I’ve been researching places I could live where things never change. Amish country looks nice. Cows, quilts, good times. I think I could have been good at being Amish…you know…except for the religion thing…and the lack of nail polish.

Price is not object. But if you have one to sell it needs to come with a warranty. I need at least six months between break downs.

FYI, I’m sick. Again.

I’m not sure if I’m a generally sickly person, or if perhaps I’ve offended some virus deity and now all of her minions are hell bent on attacking me one by one until I finally realize my mistake and make the appropriate sacrifice.

(BTW, if anyone knows what the appropriate sacrifice is, and where the alter can be found, I’m totally in…reward for information.)

In good news, this cold is way less bad than my last illness. (I hesitate to call anything that took me out for six weeks solid a cold but…)

In bad news, the memory of just how bad I had it last time left me thinking “I can work through this”.

I was wrong.

By eleven am I was shaking and I’d missed a rather important meeting because I dialled the wrong conference code and rather than thinking I must have done something wrong, my viral ridden brain assumed that I was the only one (of 7 people scheduled to attend) that had actually showed up for the meeting. (How disrespectful and inconsiderate of them. Hack, cough, wheeze.)

Anyway, long story short I spent most of the day in bed. And in between naps I felt bad that I wasn’t working because “it’s not as bad as last time”. There is seriously something wrong with me…other than the virus.

In good news, edits are something I can pick up and put down between naps, so I made some progress today on Riveted. Yay. Cough. Hack. Wheeze.

NB. Totally serious about the virus deity. Reward for information. I’ll do anything at this point.

Writing Exercise:

Write a prayer to the gods of illness. Or a poem expressing what you’d do to prevent or lessen your next illness. I can’t be the only person who believes right? And if it works, share a copy. Like I said, I’ll do anything.

My opinions used to be so simple. Men with hot bodies. Yes, please. Washboard stomaches, yum. Then I had to get do some research and ruin it all for myself…

I watched a show the other day on how hard Will Smith and that Green Lantern guy work on their bodies and now I’m all conflicted. (Personal growth sucks.)

Will Smith apparently worked out 5 hours A DAY, to get his body looking like, well like something I’d like to do inappropriate things to. A DAY people. And then when he was done, they put makeup and lighting on him to make his body look even better to me…one of the drooling masses that given the opportunity, might just risk her marriage for the chance to spray fake whip (I don’t like the real stuff) onto the mountains and valley of his abs to go skiing. (He’s on my list. Don’t judge.)

After hearing how fanatical these men had to be to get their body in shape for a role I started thinking about my body, and my body image.

In my late thirties I’m finally, finally reaching a point where I might accept myself as I am, bumps and lumps and all. Sure I want to keep getting better to be healthy so I can do everything I want to do, but I’m getting closer to not hating me. It’s taken me nearly 40 years.

I don’t usually like to play the blame game, but I’m sure that how women were portrayed to me as a young child, shaped my opinion of me. I want the impossible body, even though I know it would take 8 or more hours a day of training, and faithful dedication to get there. Eight hours, and dedication I don’t have or wont give.

So, we’ve made progress, but now it seems that any pride we can hold about “getting there” for women and girls is being eroded by the newly unrealistic expectations girls will have for their men, and what’s worse, what we’re doing to men and boys.

We’ve raised generations of women to hate their bodies, and now, rather than fixing it, we’re just sharing the wealth and telling the men and boys “look at those abs, that’s what real women want”.

Well I’m here to say, yes, we want those things. But what we want more, is a man who can love himself enough, just the way he is, to love us back, just the way we are. (I got luck on that one.)

Damn it, I hate new information that makes me have to be a better person. Why couldn’t my moment of catharsis have waited until after the 300 sequel was released. Damn it.

Writing Exercise:

I’ve been working on edits for Riveted. The majority of my edits have been re-writing sentences to reduce my use of “I statements”. (Riveted is written in the first person, and I rely too heavily on having my character tell things using “I saw” or “I said”.) Super hard work, but it’s making the book better, so…

At first I thought the edits would be as simple as removing the “I’s”. In some cases that’s true, but in others I realized that I was using the “I’s” to hide a weakness in the paragraph, so rather than quick edits I’m doing re-writes of sentences and I love how its improving my work one sentence at a time.

Pick up a piece of your writing and choose a sentence at random, the try to re-write the sentence three different ways without changing the meaning. If the sentence was descriptive, could the same description come out as dialogue? (Not necessarily someone describing things, but perhaps illustrating the description with how a person reacts?) If the sentence was dialogue, could it be action? Could you use a different sentence construction?

The wasps of the world are out to get me. Whey else build a nest up seventeen stories? The queen is totally playing the long game. On her own she can’t beat me. She’s been thwarted by my screen doors and cagy use of footwear when I walk on lawns (learned that lesson the hard way as a child). So to draw me out, she’s building a nest just out of reach, taunting me. It’s just far enough away that I have to lean over the balcony to smack it down. Then when I’m precariously dangling seventeen floors up she and her hive buddies will attack, tipping me over the edge to my doom. Well played your majesty, but I’m totally onto you. Wasp conspiracy…it’s the only logical answer.

A wasp queen is building her nest outside my dining room window.

That wouldn’t have been a problem a few years ago when we were suburban dwellers. I would have donned rain gear, waited until nightfall and smacked the sucker to the ground. (Then run away shrieking. Very dignified. I had it down to an art.)

But now we live seventeen stories in the sky. My windows don’t open and this week I watched in helpless horror as a wasp queen built a papery palace completely safe from my smacking and running skills.

Leaving it in place wasn’t an option. I don’t like wasps. Bees I can get behind. I mean honey, chubby fluffy bodies, that guy on the cereal box, that’s worth a little venom now and again. Wasps however are not welcome in my universe.

It could be their fearless, arrogant attack of creatures (me) hundreds of times their size.

It could be a childhood memory, hazy with venom and antihistamine, of furiously running from a swarm, leaping from a cliff and breaking my arm.

It could be the allergy that caused me to grow a third breast the last time I was stung. I may never know. But either way, the queen and her hive of death had to go.

No problem. That’s what professionals are for. Right? Apparently not.

Pest Guy: Pest control. How can I help you?

Me: I have a wasp nest in an inaccessible place and I need to get rid of it before they kill me.

Pest Guy: Where is it?

(Note the Pest Guy’s lack of surprise that the wasps plan on killing me. He made a good first impression.)

Me: Outside my dining room window, up seventeen floors.

Pest Guy: Ok.

Me: It’s around a corner from my balcony with nothing below it…

Pest Guy: How’s Thursday?

So I waited for the pest guy to arrive. The wasp nest grew slowly and I may or may not have had nightmares. But when the pest guy arrived, he didn’t bring salvation, he brought a stick and a can of spray.

Me: Ummm, the nest is kinda inaccessible.

Pest Guy: No problem.

(I show him where it is.)

Pest Guy: Problem.

To him credit he tried. Measured and leaned way further over my balcony than I would have before giving up and going home to get a hockey stick.

(Totally my idea…long enough to reach the nest from my balcony, hooked end to get around the corner to the window. I could have been a pest control professional… you know if it weren’t for the anaphylactic allergy and the terror.)

NB. I’m finally making some progress with the edits on Riveted. I hate hearing that I need to make changes but I’ve got to admit the changes are making Riveted a stronger piece of writing. Stupid personal growth.

Sharing: – Caution, fear and attempted regicide can lead to haiku.

A wasp built a nest,

Just within my fearful view,

I will kill you wasp.

You’re just out of reach,

Cleaver, cleaver insect queen,

I have a stick, ha.

Regicide thwarted,

You win this round, insect queen,

Tomorrow you die.

Writing Exercise:

Plan the wasp attack. I’ve killed your kind for years. Now is the time for waspish revenge.